Everyone knows that everyone is dying.
As usual I imagine his death,
my falling to the damp floor of the hospital,
tying black curtains to the windows,
wearing gloves in the shower.
What would I do with his body?
I think maybe eat it.
I can’t tell him about the worm eye,
because to say it out loud would make it real.
All I can do is smell him and smell him.
This one— this single one, is alive.
On the volcano I feel the quietly vibrating
sex of the tectonic plates through my legs.
Cute nature is imminently not cute.
Hot death comes in, a tax avoider.
Hot death makes every spot of my skin prickle,
If I bring the end of him up a bit,
then suddenly it is all blazing.
The cinnamon ash is blazing,
the heads twisting and pouring water.
Those messy organs, how nice.
That burnt black spot,
all the tastes coming from it.